How to Tame Your Duke (28 page)

He flew across the terrace and leapt down the steps. He ran down the garden path, lungs searing, and staggered to a stop in front of the conservatory door.

Broken glass glittered in the moonlight. The door stood ajar, wavering slightly in a breath of wind.

“Emilie!” he howled.

As his voice died away into the distant shouts from the ballroom, the sound of running footsteps reached his ears.

He spun around.

“Sir! Oh, sir!”

A maid was running up, clutching her cap to her head, her crisp black-and-white uniform springing from the shadows.

“Who’s that?” he barked.

“Oh, sir! It’s me, it’s Lucy. Lucy from t’Abbey, sir!”

“Lucy!” He grabbed her shoulders. She was heaving for air. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

“It’s Her Highness, sir! I come to tell you! You was flying up t’garden that fast, I couldn’t keep up!”

Ashland drew a deep breath, willing himself to calm, willing his racing pulse to quiet. “It’s all right, Lucy. Quite all right. What did you come to tell me?”

“It’s Her Highness, sir. I’m sure it’s nowt, but it seemed so odd, sir. With t’party going on, and t’feighting.”

“What’s odd, Lucy? Tell me.” His heart was smashing violently against his ribs.

“Why, it’s Mr. Simpson, sir.”

“Mr. Simpson? My butler? But he’s at Eaton Square, isn’t he?”

Lucy shook her solemn head. “He did come over here. He did come over here, sir, just afore t’feight started in t’ballroom. And then I sees him . . . him and Her Highness . . .”

“What, Lucy?”

“They’ve gone off together, sir. Off in a hansom cab, as fast as you please.”

T
hank goodness you had the cabman wait around the mews, Mr. Simpson,” said Emilie. “The carriages have entirely closed up Park Lane.”

“Indeed, Your Highness,” said Mr. Simpson.

She craned her neck to see around the horse’s ears. The cold wind rushed against her face, heavy with fog. “Can he not go any faster? Every second counts!”

“Of course, madam.”

“Lucy’s gone off to find the duke. Oh God! If they’ve harmed Freddie and Mary in any way, I’ll never forgive myself.” She looked down at the crumpled paper in her hand, crushed in the panic of reading the terse message.

“If I’d had any idea of the contents of the note, madam, I should of course have stayed to defend his lordship.” Mr. Simpson sounded quite calm, but then he was trained to remain calm in the face of crisis.

As was she, she reminded herself. She sat back in the cab and tried not to think of Freddie and Mary in Hans’s power, Miss Dingleby’s power.
As you read this Note, Lord Frederick Russell and Lady Mary Russell have been taken into the Custody of the Revolutionary Brigade of the Free Blood. You will repair at once to 28 Eaton Mews North and await further instruction.

Await further instruction.
What did
that
mean?

They were trotting smartly down the eastern side of Belgrave Square now. The traffic had thinned somewhat, and Emilie’s belly tightened, as if the strain of her own muscles could somehow push them faster.

“There was no one at the house when you left?”

Mr. Simpson coughed. “No, madam. The footmen, the maids—all of them were at Park Lane tonight. Only Mrs. Needle and I were in residence when the note arrived for you. I took it upon myself to deliver it.”

“I’m so terribly sorry. It’s all my fault. She knew I’d found her out, and she must have raced directly over, knowing how much . . . how much I . . .” Her voice faltered. She couldn’t say the words
love them
, not in front of Mr. Simpson. “How much His Grace is attached to his son,” she finished, gripping the edge of the wooden door before her.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, madam.”

“No, of course not. Damn it all, can we not go any faster?” She rapped on the trapdoor.

The driver opened. “Yes, ma’am?”

“We’re in a dreadful hurry. An emergency. As fast as your horse is able, please!” She looked at Simpson. “Have you any money with you?”

“Yes, madam.” An injured air.

“Thank God for that, at least.”

Simpson accepted her unladylike language without a flinch. “Yes, madam.”

The hansom jolted over a rut in the road and swung left onto Belgrave Place. Only a minute or two, now. Simpson was reaching into his pocket for the fare. Emilie closed her eyes and listened to the rattle of the wheels, to the clop-clop of the horse drawing her closer and closer to . . . what?

It might be a trap.
She mouthed the words to herself.

Well, of course it was a trap. That was the point, wasn’t it? To gain control of Emilie’s person. Freddie, Mary, Ashland, Simpson, poor Mrs. Needle—they were simply innocent collateral. All this planning and danger, all this suffering: It was all because of her, because of who she was.

She’d allowed them to put themselves in harm’s way.

Her fault.

The hansom turned again with a sharp jerk, forcing Emilie’s eyes open. The paving stones in the mews were rough and deeply rutted, causing the entire vehicle to bounce as they trotted down the length of buildings.

“Twenty-eight, you said?” came the driver’s voice through the trapdoor. “Here it is.”

The hansom rolled to a stop. Simpson thrust the money through the door, and Emilie was flying off the cab the instant the driver released the doors, tangling in her blue satin ball gown with its princely train. The building stood before her, with its wide carriage door to the left and the servants’ entrance to the right. A few wisps of straw lay limp and dirty on the pavement outside.

Her slippers scrabbled over the wet cobbles. She clutched Ashland’s tailcoat to her shoulders and staggered to the door and pounded with her fist.

The wooden panel swung open.

She fell forward into the damp-smelling hall. “Freddie! Mary!”

The unmistakable voice of the Marquess of Silverton floated from somewhere above. “Go
back
, Grimsby! Go
now
!” The last word was cut off by a thump.

“Freddie! I’m coming!”

“No, Grimsby! Go away! Get Pater! We’re all right!”

A small feminine scream, cut short.

“Mary! Oh God!”

The hall was dark, almost perfectly black. Emilie lurched into the gloom with her hands stretched out before her, trying to find the stairs. From behind her came the thump of Simpson’s footsteps, then the hiss of gas, and suddenly a ghostly circle of gaslight illuminated the space.

A pair of horses thrust their surprised noses over the stall doors. The duke’s fine black landau sat in the middle of the space, polished and ready for a morning turn about the park. Where were the grooms, the servants? Park Lane?

“Freddie?”

“
Go
, Grimsby!” Another hard thump, a blow on flesh, followed by a grunt of pain.

Emilie looked wildly upward in the direction of the sound.

Freddie and Mary sat back-to-back in the hayloft, bound together with rope. A glowering Hans stood above them, brandishing the rope’s end.

A pistol dangled from his other hand.

“Let them go, Hans! I
order
you!” shouted Emilie in German.

“By what right?” he asked.

“I am your
princess
, by God!”

“By God, you are not.” He spoke calmly, with infinite conviction. “You are a tyrant, and your kind has held sway over the people of Germany long enough. Your time has passed, and you don’t even know it. Look at you in your gown, your jewels, your ridiculous yards of silk. What have you done for the betterment of the world? What right do you have to rule over anyone?”

“Look here,” said Freddie, “I can’t understand a word you’ve said, but I do know you can’t talk to my stepmother in such a fashion.”

A voice floated out from the doorway. “Now, now, your lordship. This is no way to conduct a negotiation of such a delicate nature.”

Emilie spun around. In the instant before the gaslight winked out into darkness, the image of Miss Dingleby floated before her: eyes bright, one hand reaching for the lamp and the other holding a pistol.

*   *   *

A
shland found Mrs. Needle in the Eaton Square scullery, bound and gagged. “Where are they?” he demanded, the instant the rag came free from her mouth.

“Oh, sir! I’m that sorry! He took them off, he did. He was in like a flash, right through t’area door.” She worked her jaw, wincing.

Ashland pried with his desperate left hand at the ropes around her wrists. “Who? Who took them?”

“A great German fellow, he was. Scarce a word of English to him. Oh, sir. Has he taken Lord Freddie and her ladyship?”

“I fear he has, Mrs. Needle. You must tell me everything you know. Was there anyone with him? A tall woman with dark hair?”

“Nay, not anyone, sir. They went off through t’back, they did.”

The ropes loosened at last. Ashland tugged them off and rubbed Mrs. Needle’s wrists, one by one. “The back! To the mews, then?”

“Why, aye, sir!”

“By God.” He rose to his feet. “Mrs. Needle, ring Scotland Yard at once. Ask for a chap named Parker, tell them it’s urgent, tell them it’s from me. Parker will know what to do.”

“Aye, sir! Right away, sir!”

He ducked under the doorway to the hall. “And Mrs. Needle?”

“Aye, sir?”

“If Simpson and Her Highness arrive here, for God’s
sake
don’t let them leave.”

*   *   *

I
n the absence of light, Emilie’s mind cleared of anxiety. She had learned, in her long hours of blindfolded conversation with the Duke of Ashland, how to accept the loss of sight. How to compensate. How to listen and smell, to stretch out the net of her senses. Next to her, Mr. Simpson reached out to lay a protective hand on her arm; above her, Mary cried out.

But Emilie knew Miss Dingleby hadn’t moved from the entrance. She still stood there, with her pistol in one hand, unable to aim and fire it in the darkness.

What was she waiting for?

“Miss Dingleby!” Emilie heard her own voice ring out, clear and confident, and the sound gave her strength. “You have what you want. I’m here. Release Freddie and Mary, and I’ll go with you willingly.”

A slight shuffle along the floorboards. “My dear, whatever do you mean?”

“I know you’re working with Hans. I know you’re in league with these anarchists, my father’s murderers. I daresay you have some sort of plan for me, or else you’d have killed me outright by now. Whatever it is, I stand ready. Let them go.”

Miss Dingleby laughed in the darkness. “Good gracious! What an inventive mind you have. Plans for you? My plans are only to keep you safe. I’ve spent the last few hours tracking down our German friend here, once I learned he’d left his post in Park Lane. Thank goodness one of us thought to bring a pistol along. Or had you hoped to bribe him with your sapphires?”

Emilie had quite forgotten about the sapphires. She put her hand to her neck. There they were, cold and heavy, worth a fortune. She wrapped her fingers around them, as if they were an anchor that might hold her spinning thoughts in place. “The drink. The drink you offered me before the party.”

“To refresh you. Really, Emilie! What the devil’s come over you? Stand aside, please, so I may deal with Hans without fear of injuring you.”

Emilie shook her head. “No. I saw the look in your eye. And Ashland said . . . when he heard about the drink . . .”

“My dear girl, you’ve put yourself in such a muddle. If I meant to kidnap you, why on earth would I have sent you into Yorkshire? For months? And your sisters. Wouldn’t I have kidnapped them, too? You’re not making any sense at all.”

Emilie forced her brain into logic. “Because of my uncle. Because you had to make him think the danger came from elsewhere, or he would have found you out. He would have stopped you in your tracks.” She gasped. “Olympia! He was your real target tonight, wasn’t he? He was the one you meant to kill. You could have put a bullet through him tonight, and no one would have suspected you!”

“I say!” exclaimed Freddie.

“What went wrong tonight, Miss Dingleby? Did you think I’d found you out, and switched plans? Or was Hans disobeying orders, coming to Eaton Square?” She turned in the direction of the hayloft and cast her voice upward into the blackness. “Hans!” she said in German. “What was the plan at Park Lane tonight?”

Silence.

“So he
is
working with you,” said Emilie, turning back. “It was your idea, luring me here tonight while everyone else was at the party. Your secondary plan, because the first went awry when I refused the drink.”

“Nonsense. Hans!” Miss Dingleby barked, in German. “You will release the two children at once.”

“Fräulein?”

“At
once
, I said.”

Hesitation, and then, “
Nein
, fräulein.”

“Let them go, Hans,” said Emilie. “I have a fortune in jewels around my neck. They’re yours. Let them go, and you’ll have me, you’ll have the jewels. They’re innocent. They have nothing to do with this.”

“Stop it, Grimsby!”

A shuffling sound came from the hayloft, a thump. Mary squealed.

“Turn on the lights, fräulein!” shouted Hans. “Now!”

At once, the gaslight illuminated the interior of the mews in a sickly glow. Emilie stumbled back, held up only by Simpson’s firm hand on her arm, trying to keep both Miss Dingleby and the hayloft in sight.

The hayloft, where Freddie was half standing, struggling furiously with the ropes around him, and Hans stood with the rope end held above his head, about to strike.

Where the Duke of Ashland, poised along the rafters, dropped silently to the hayloft floor and knocked the pistol out of Hans’s astonished hand.

*   *   *

I
n India, in Afghanistan, they had called him the Wraith. They had called it impossible, a miracle, that a man so large and solid could move about without disturbing a single breath of air, a tiny pebble on a path. Could creep up on a sentry in a mountain pass and kill him, without either of them making a whisper.

Impossible, the Afghans had said. He cannot be human. He must be a spirit, a ghost.

They had put a price on his head anyway, and had increased that price to a princely sum. Some among the British ranks had thought he should head home while he could, that he’d done enough, that no man could take such chances forever. But Olympia had disagreed.
We cannot do without him, not with the British army poised to make its advance over the border
.

And Ashland himself? He’d believed himself invulnerable. Everything in life had come naturally to him: his looks, his strength, his brains, his talent, his beautiful wife. He had conceived a healthy male heir on his wedding night. He was the favorite of the gods. How could he fall?